


a little less human

by armyofbees



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Pirate, M/M, Pining, Pirates, Touch-Starved, sledge is gay and full of rage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:28:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22336303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/armyofbees/pseuds/armyofbees
Summary: There’s an anger in Sledge that Shelton somehow always manages to bring out. He keeps it under wraps, is good at seeming perfectly self-contained, but Shelton likes to make himself the perfect target.
Relationships: Merriell "Snafu" Shelton/Eugene Sledge, Sidney "Sid" Phillips & Eugene Sledge
Comments: 8
Kudos: 14





	a little less human

**Author's Note:**

> hello! i have little to say other than "apparently 18th century historical fiction is the only thing that can beat my writer's block, and throwing snafu in there just adds the icing on the cake." right now i have this estimated at five chapters, but we'll see where that goes. i have a playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3vDgew4XqLXMJ2YO7LknvO) that is still in the works and, in theory, follows the story of this fic.
> 
> as always, i mean no disrespect towards the actual veterans, and am writing about the characters as they appear in The Pacific.
> 
> thank you for reading & enjoy!

High noon is sweltering out on the open water, the sun beating down upon a rowboat caught in choppy jade-green waves. They wash, white and frothing, up against the sandy shore of a small island, while the sunlight glaring off the beach further distorts the heat rising from the baking shallows and humid jungle behind.

Shelton looks dubiously on the cay as they approach, throwing a glance back towards the  _ Fitzanne _ as they run up on shallow sand fifty feet out from the shore. There’s no sign of their bounty yet, just the thin strip of hot pale beach and the looming green of the tree line maybe a hundred feet up. Shelton had been half-hoping he would come running towards them across the sand, arms waving in false relief, but maybe Shelton should adjust his expectations. There is, of course, the risk that the kid is dead — after all, Hewitt hadn’t left him any water or weapons to fend off the wilderness.

The less appetizing possibility is that he’s smarter than they gave him credit for, and they’ll have to spend the next few hours chasing him across an empty island not even worth the space it occupies on a map.

“All right,” says Burgin, vaulting over the rowboat’s narrow gunwale and landing with a splash in the shifting water. It’s windy, lucky considering they’ll need it to get back to Nassau within the day, but the stiff breeze churns the water about their knees as they drag the boat the last few miserable yards up the beach.

Once it rests safely keel-up on dry land, Shelton drops the towropes over the top and joins Burgin further up the beach, surveying the island. The sand is scorching against the soles of his bare feet and he finds himself shifting to and fro, watching the foliage for movement. Burgin nudges him into stillness, nodding up toward the shade cast by the forest.

“Take Sid and De L’Eau, check for breakage along the tree line.” He points northward, towards where the trees creep down to meet the water, then slant off east. “Me, Smith, and Leyden will circle back and check the southern inlet.”

Shelton nods absently. An outcropping of rock around where the trees edge out to the waterline has caught his eye, and he raises a hand to shield his eyes against the sun. The hot air rises from the sand in heatsick spasms, blown about and wavering in the breeze, transfiguring the rock into melting wax. “Y’sure it’s this beach?”

“According to Hewitt, yes,” Burgin says, following Shelton’s gaze. He claps a hand to Shelton’s shoulder. “He ain’t good for much, but he’s a damn good navigator. Sooner we get moving, sooner we get paid. Let’s go.”

“You got it, Burgie.”

Shelton pays half a mind to the treeline as he, De L’Eau, and Sid Phillips make their way up to the northern bay of the island, but his attention drifts ever towards the small cliff that appears as though it has built itself up from the forest floor, organic. As they draw closer, Shelton realizes what it is that keeps catching his eye.

“Phillips,” he says.

“Got him?” Phillips asks, at his shoulder.

Shelton points up to the outcropping. “What the hell’s he doin’?”

Near the edge of the cliff face stands their quarry, facing back towards the trees. Until a moment ago he had been laying down, his dark coat blending him in with the pockmarked limestone, until he had stood. He appears fully clothed, the only sign of disarray his copper hair made tousled and rugged by days of neglect. Shelton cannot fathom wearing an overcoat in this kind of heat, but he reminds himself that fatigue will make him easier to catch.

“That’s him all right,” confirms Phillips. “But I haven’t got a clue what he’s up to.”

“Well, come on then.” Shelton turns and calls to De L’Eau, and then they’re off towards the woods at the base of the outcropping. He keeps one eye on the boy on the ledge, but nothing changes about his demeanor. He doesn’t even appear to have spotted them, despite Shelton making no effort to stay hidden. At this point, if he runs, he’ll be running straight into Shelton’s pistol.

They lose sight of him briefly as they climb the steep rock face, but Shelton spots him again through the thinning foliage shortly enough. He’s turned out towards the ocean and stepped closer to the edge, Shelton has enough time to think,  _ That’s odd, _ as he breaks through the treeline — before he vanishes completely.

“Eugene!” shouts Phillips, right behind Shelton as they crash out of the underbrush and peer over the edge of the cliff. There’s Sledge, dropping like a stone, and then there’s only the calm green of the water as he disappears beneath the surface.

“Fuckin’ —” Shelton is stripping off his belt before he can think twice, piling his shot pouches and holstered pistol onto Phillips’ waiting arms. “Get down to the beach,” he orders, before he turns and dives off of the cliff.

It’s a longer drop than he expected, and the water here is too shallow to make diving really advisable, but it’s warm and welcoming when Shelton hits it, and through sheer luck he avoids crashing into any hidden boulders or coral.

He blinks his eyes open, the saltwater harsh and stinging, and scans the darkening water for any sign of Sledge. There — not too far but sinking fast, the telltale brown pelt of a governor’s son. Shelton swims down, catching Sledge by the elbow, then hooking both arms under his shoulders. It’s the fucking coat that does it, slows their progress until Shelton’s lungs are screaming. He bites down on the precious little air left in his lungs and hauls Sledge the last few feet to the surface.

He gasps as he breaches, blinking frantically until his eyes clear and he has to squint into the sunlight. Momentarily disoriented, Shelton swings about wildly, legs churning, until he catches sight of land. Only then does he calm, and he turns to assess his prize. Sledge is unconscious, a pliable, waterlogged deadweight in Shelton’s arms. He’s bleeding from a gash in his temple and water dribbles down his chin from his slack mouth. Eyes narrowed, Shelton begins making his way toward shore but doesn’t make it far before they begin to sink again, coughing around the water slick in his throat and nostrils. It’s the damn coat, heavy and wet as it is, and Shelton wrestles with the stiff wool until he manages to shuck it from Sledge’s shoulders. He kicks it away with an errant leg, watching it drop off lazily into the abyss, before finally dragging Sledge to safety.

Phillips meets him in the surf, seizing one of Sledge’s arms to help pull him out. They lay him down on the ground and Phillips says, shockingly tender, “Christ, Eugene,” and Shelton knows instantly that he’s worthless there.

“Phillips,” he says sharply, but Phillips has eyes only for Sledge, dripping red onto the white sand. “Sid,” Shelton tries. “Sid. Go get Burgie.”

“But —” Phillips starts, looking between the blood on the beach and Shelton’s flinty eyes.

“You ain’t no use here,” Shelton tells him honestly. “Go get Burgie.”

Phillips blinks. One last hesitating glance, and then he turns and runs. Shelton spares a moment to watch him go with furrowed brows, and then he looks back at Sledge. “Jay,” he says, “my belt.”

Shelton does the best he can with the water in Sledge’s lungs — pumps his chest, tips him over to let the coughing expel the rest — and then they bind Shelton’s spare bandages around Sledge’s forehead.

Shelton sits back and sighs once that’s done. Sledge has yet to wake up, and with the loss of blood Shelton doubts he will for another few hours at least. Forehead wounds, he reminds himself, bleed mostly for show. Their ransom hasn’t been ripped from them yet. With that in mind, he straps his belt back about his waist and stands, gesturing for De L’Eau to do the same.

“Let’s get him aboard for actual treatment,” he says, hooking his arms under Sledge’s shoulders again while De L’Eau takes the legs.

They make it about a quarterway down the beach before they’re met by Phillips and Burgin. Burgin doesn’t falter when he sees the bandage with crimson already seeping through the layers, just checks it’s fastened securely and nods to Shelton.

“Runner and Leckie are readying the boat,” he says. “Good work.”

“Well,” Shelton says, doing his best to shrug under Sledge’s weight. “Couldn’t let our money drown.”

Burgin chuckles, while Phillips looks vaguely uncomfortable. “Damn right.”

Sledge wakes once on the way back to the  _ Fitzanne, _ a vague half-consciousness brought on by the rocking of the rowboat. His eyes drift open, and a soft groan issues from his lips. Phillips almost drops his oar in his haste to check on him, but Shelton stops him with a glare.

“Ain’t nothin’ you can do,” he says, patting Sledge’s arm. Then, looking down at him, he murmurs, “’S all right. We promise not to kill you. Ain’t no use to us dead.”

* * *

Eugene Sledge, according to Phillips, is a good man. Phillips tells him this as they’re waiting in the captain’s quarters to give their report to Haldane. Burgin flanks Shelton on his other side, and De L’Eau is fiddling with a knife as he listens to Phillips talk.

“There’s some things he did for me,” Phillips starts, eyes fixed on his hands, fiddling. “I’ll never be able to repay him, not for as long as I live. He put himself in real danger for me. Takes a particular kind of man to do that for another.” At this, he looks up into Burgin’s eyes. “No one touches him, hear? We’ll soon owe our fortunes to Eugene.”

Burgin meets Phillips’ eyes, even and steady as the sea beating against the bow, and acquiesces. “Not a hand, Sid.”

Sidney Phillips made a confession when the plan to retrieve Sledge was first concocted. Sidney Phillips is guilty of murder. He’s also guilty of much, much more — crimes mostly committed since Sledge helped him escape Charles Town in a boat stolen from the governor of the Carolinas, who also happened to be Sledge’s own father. Phillips assures them that Eugene Sledge is a good man, but, notwithstanding Sledge’s apparent devotion to his friend, Shelton decides he’ll make that assessment for himself.

By the time Shelton joined Haldane’s crew, he’d seen enough men cast out of the favor of God and the law to guess at Phillips’ story. The peculiarly polite deckhand who was more literate than half of Nassau’s would-be aristocracy, who insisted on a waistcoat despite the heat, whose accent was far too colonial-pidgin to be a turncoat navy officer such as the captain.

“You grew up in the colonies,” Shelton interrupted the first time Phillips mistakenly attempted to trade his life story for Shelton’s. A poorly concealed sneer underlied his words. “Carolina planter-types. Fancied yourself a fighter, fancied yourself  _ different.” _ Shelton bared his teeth, a mockery of a smile.  _ “Bourgeois. _ You didn’t belong, maybe you did something wrong, so you ran off and joined our crew. ’Cause what kinda southern gentleman doesn’t dream of robbing and raping?” Shelton looked down at where he was cleaning his knife, attacked a spot of grime. “Y’ain’t nothin’ new, boy.”

When Shelton looked back up, Phillips hadn’t budged an inch. He was, infuriatingly, smiling. It was barely there, a smirk limned by the crease of his eyes, but it made Shelton want to take his knife to his face.

“Not bad,” Phillips said, standing and patting Shelton’s shoulder. “Maybe next time you’ll even get it right.” He moved off, and Shelton was left clutching his blade with both hands, knuckles white. After a moment, he scoffed and went back to cleaning.

Phillips never tried to foist his testimony on Shelton after that, at least not until he announced to the whole crew, “Eugene Sledge is my friend.” By then, Shelton had even learned to tolerate him, but there was something about the short-sighted conviction in Phillips’ voice that made Shelton think of that knife, the one he lost months ago, buried in some drowned man’s chest.

When Captain Haldane enters the cabin, he’s trailed by Mr. Jones, his face just on the grim side of optimistic. Jones closes the door behind them while Haldane rounds the desk and settles in the captain’s chair, nodding at the gathered crew before his gaze comes to rest on Phillips.

“He’ll be all right,” Haldane says. The tension drains immediately from Phillips’ shoulders as he nods gratefully at the captain, and Shelton allows himself a breath of relief at the prospect of not wasting all this time on a suicidal whimsy. “Dr. Stern says the head injury was largely superficial, and Mr. Shelton successfully expelled most of the water from Sledge’s lungs immediately after he was rescued.” Haldane tips a grateful nod in Shelton’s direction.

“Is he awake?” Phillips asks with a hastily tacked on, “Skipper.”

Phillips is curious. Shelton’s watched him, marked him since that first aborted attempt at fellowship, made sure he knows how he works. Phillips puts on air after air, the polite, unassuming southern boy-come-pirate, but Shelton knows that all of him is in the eyes. Right now, they glisten.

“He’s foggy,” says Haldane, “but yes. And as soon as we finish here, I’d like you to go talk to him.”

“Captain.”

“Shelton,” Jones says at Haldane’s nod, “how did this happen?”

Shelton watches Phillips a moment longer before he answers. When he does, it’s slow and even. “Dropped off a cliff. Tried to drown himself.”

Jones blinks. “How long was he out there? A day? Two?”

“Ain’t no food, no water,” Shelton shrugs. “I’d jump too, give it long enough.”

“Sir,” Burgin cuts in, catching Haldane’s eye. “Regardless of the reason, he’ll only be aboard for a few days, right? How long are we waiting for resentment to build in Charles Town?”

“Resentment will build a lot faster if we return Sledge half-starved and half-dead,” Haldane says. “And you’ll remember we cut short our last resupply. We’ll run out of provisions before we reach the colonial coast if we try to make the journey now.” He waits for Burgin’s acknowledgement before continuing, “We’ll stop in Nassau for a few days — as long as it takes Sledge to recover sufficiently. Then it’s a straight shot.”

“Captain.”

Haldane sweeps them with another expectant look, then taps the desk decisively. “All right, you’re dismissed. Phillips, Stern should be belowdecks.”

Shelton stands, watching Phillips shoulder his way out of the captain’s quarters in his haste. Shelton suppresses the habitual smirk threatening to overtake his face. “Phillips —” he starts, making to go along, but he’s stopped by Jones’ hand on his shoulder. Jones shakes his head minutely before following Phillips himself.

“Shelton,” comes Haldane’s voice, and Shelton turns.

“Skipper.”

Haldane stands and circles the desk, coming to rest against the edge. He’s backlit by the stacked window panels now bright with the afternoon sun, and Shelton feels suddenly like an insubordinate child. “Sledge is our guest.”

Shelton blinks, mouth half-open as if ready to retort against a yet nonexistent attack.

“In theory,” Haldane stops him. “Which means we treat him nicely, but we don’t let him run amok. He’s under your supervision until we return him to Charleston. Understood?”

Balking isn’t an option, but Shelton tries anyway. “Captain, are you —”

“Someone needs to look after him. You’re not amenable, fine, but this job falls to you. You can handle him for a week.” Haldane flashes a smile then, almost apologetic. “He’ll be bedridden until we reach Nassau, at the very least.”

Shelton breathes out and nods. “Right. Thanks, skipper.”

“Go on.”

Shelton turns and ducks out of the cabin, squinting into the flood of bright sunlight. “Typical,” he mutters to a waiting Burgin, leaned against the wall beside the door.

“He’s put you to work? Doing what?”

Shelton gives Burgin a flat look. “I’ve got a ward.”

“What, the governor’s son?” Burgin asks, chuckling. When Shelton doesn’t reply, he blinks. “No. Really?”

“Apparently.” Shelton curls his lip in annoyance. “I’m watchin’ his ass ’til Charleston.”

“Well,” Burgin tries, but he falls short, wordless. He shrugs. “I suppose it’s your problem now.”

“Jesus Christ, Burgie, don’t start.”

* * *

By the time the rolling slopes surrounding the port of Nassau come into view, Shelton has grown so eager to get off the ship that he jostles Burgin for a chance at the first boat down. Burgin’s raised eyebrow is unaffected.

“Shelton, where’s your ward?” As he says it, Burgin nudges Shelton back with a hand to his chest. “He’s your responsibility.”

Shelton could kill him, the frustration sinking deep into the pit of his stomach. “Stern’s taking him ashore. Ain’t mine yet.”

Burgin sighs, but gives him one last shove. “Skipper put you in charge. Besides, it’s like Sid said. You’re guarding our fortunes, Shelton. That kid’s our future.”

Shelton groans, “Jesus  _ Christ, _ Burgie,” but hangs back, resorting to sulking beneath the starboard stairway.

Shortly after disappearing into the sickbay as the  _ Fitzanne _ started back toward Nassau, Phillips had reemerged looking stony. Shelton, already irritated, left him at the mercy of Burgin, who, as boatswain, was technically in charge of the crew. The less Shelton had to deal with the rich boys’ melodramatics, the better.

Despite the delegation, Shelton could feel the tension crackling around Phillips from across the deck, and he has a few guesses as to why. All of them have to do with Sledge, but that is something Shelton doesn’t even want to dip his toe into.

When Sledge emerges from belowdecks, it seems remarkable that he’s upright at all. He’s wearing the same shirt as he was when Shelton watched him sink below the sea’s surface, salt-encrusted and mud-streaked, but the waistcoat is nowhere to be seen. A bandage is tied neatly around his forehead, grime-darkened hair mussed and sticking out from it. He squints in the sunlight and raises a pale hand to shield his eyes.

He’s supported in part by Stern, who spots Shelton across the deck and nods at him. Shelton secures a spot in the next tender, claiming an empty bench and propping one foot up along the wood. The boat fills up around him as he waits, chatter slowly building at the prospect of free time. When they arrive, Stern sits at the other end of the bench and Sledge pauses, fairly towering over Shelton where he sprawls.

“Seat’s taken,” Shelton says, angling his chin beyond Sledge’s waist and towards the next bench, full up with Chuckler, Runner, Smith, and Leckie. “Try there.”

Sledge regards Shelton with an air of faint distaste, not so much as casting a glance behind himself until Shelton flashes his teeth in an approximation of a smile. Sledge does turn then, frowning.

Stern, who has watched this exchange with an amused expression, apparently folds. “Don’t be an ass, Shelton.”

Shelton meets that with a genuine grin that he turns onto Sledge, lingering before finally letting his foot drop to the deck with a heavy thud.

Sledge sits next to him stiffly, reeking of dried blood and fear-sweat, but holding himself staunchly upright nonetheless. There’s an austerity to him that Shelton wouldn’t call dignity. He makes some attempt to separate himself from Shelton, but it’s a narrow bench and he trembles where their arms meet. And underneath it all, when Sledge turns to glance apprehensively up at the  _ Fitzanne’s _ hull, his eyes are dark with rage.

The ride to shore is short and uneventful. Shelton feels a knot uncoiling in his chest as they near, relaxing into his seat with all the languid grace of a cat uncurling from a nap. When the tender’s nose scrapes sand, Shelton easily jumps the side and doesn’t wait for Sledge to follow before making his way to dry land.

Nassau is the sort of port where one wants for nothing and everything at once. Noisy, crowded, and filled with all those things deserving of the obloquy of polite society, the city provides to excess but gives away nothing save cheap liquor and the embrace of a warm, strange bed. Shelton could use both, and he wastes no time near the tents being pitched on the beach, striding confidently towards where the cobble starts.

He’s nearly to the road when Burgin’s exasperated voice calls, “Forgetting something, Shelton?”

Shelton turns, sparing Burgin a flat glance before fixing Sledge with a long stare. “The fuck you doin’, kid? You’re with me.”

Sledge, inexplicably, looks at Burgin, almost like he expects him to turn and reveal some private joke. Burgin just nods to Shelton and starts towards the captain’s tent, satisfied. Sledge is left swaying unsteadily just out of reach of the surf, still watching Burgin’s retreating back like a crying child watches his mother.

Shelton scoffs, loud and derisive so Sledge will hear, and heads back up the street.

He follows Shelton at some distance most of the way to the inn-turned-brothel, finally catching up with him a few feet from the door. There’s an air of pointed disdain about him as he realizes where they are, and his steps falter at the threshold.

“Really? We’re going in there?”

Shelton pauses, takes a moment to consider that it is the first thing Sledge has said to him since he saved his life. His voice is somehow deeper than Shelton had thought it would be, his accent fine English. Shelton realizes only as he notices the contrast that he had expected the same colonial brogue that Phillips wears like a mark.

“Well, I’m going in there,” Shelton says, letting Sledge squirm for a few moments. “And you have to come with me.” He pushes the door open. “So yes.”

Inside, the main floor is open and bustling. Women circle the room, swaying about in swooping, shiftless stays and high skirts. Some carry trays or pitchers, some stop by lone men at tables in search of a companion. Shelton feels Sledge stiffen even further beside him, rigidity creeping its way across his shoulders, ice-like. He laughs.

“Relax,” he chuckles, knocking into Sledge a little too roughly for it to be affectionate. “You don’t have to fuck anyone if you don’t want to.”

Sledge flushes a rewarding scarlet, high in his white cheeks. He looks near fainting, and Shelton eventually takes pity on him.

“Ain’t what I’m here for, anyway. Right now I need a drink.”

He leads Sledge through clouds of heavy-scented perfume, throngs of people at too-small tables. In places like these there is always a corner table that sits perpetually open, good for anyone wishing to pass unnoticed, or otherwise to get well and truly sotted without the risk of becoming public entertainment. It is there that Shelton settles.

“This is…” Sledge starts after a moment, looking all wound up to drag Shelton into a dragging bout of small talk that would undoubtedly spoil the rewarding end to a long, restless trip.

“Don’t,” Shelton says shortly, and the table is mired in silence until their drinks arrive.

Across the bar, the front door slams open to Runner’s raucous laughter, and Smith and Chuckler follow on his heels. Shelton watches them as he scrapes a fingernail across the rim of his tankard, the absence of Leckie glaringly obvious.

“They’re missin’ some members,” he says slowly, against his better judgement. His eyes edge back towards Sledge, mildly curious.

Sledge stares, unconsciously petulant, which at least assures Shelton that he’s following his line of thinking.

“Five of them are a unit, y’know. Bonded fast, after Sid got here. Leckie can be an ass, but he looks after his friends. And I ain’t ever seen Sid this fucked up over anyone.” Shelton watches Sledge’s face shift moodily, the tempered rage in his eyes dark against the brothel’s lantern light. “So what’s it take to break the heart of a good, upstanding southern gentleman like Sidney Phillips?”

“It’s none of your business,” Sledge says. There’s hurt buried in his voice, thorny.

“Y’sure, Sledge? It’s my crew.”

“It’s Haldane’s crew, as far as I know,” Sledge shoots back, sinking lower into his seat. “And you have no clue what you’re talking about.”

“Haldane doesn’t know what’s goin’ on ’tween you and Phillips either, and he’s gonna want to.”

“What does he care?” Sledge asks, and Shelton could laugh for his puerile anger.

“We’re trying to ransom you. No good having a conflict of interest.”

Sledge falls silent, glowering. “There’s nothing  _ going on.” _

“I don’t know.” Shelton speaks slowly, carefree. He watches Sledge coil himself into a ball, a spring-loaded child’s toy for Shelton to wind up and let go. “Seems to me like you were expectin’ something a lot more pleasant from him than what you got.”

Sledge pauses, jaw working. “Well, yes. He was my friend.”

Shelton watches, unblinking. “Friend, huh. Have a lot of friends back in Charles Town?” Sledge’s face pinches, discomfited. “Or was it only ever him?”

“Jesus Christ,” Sledge explodes at last, and Shelton watches rage and spittle fly, pleased. “Don’t be so — how can you  _ say _ — well — and how do you imagine it feels, being  _ sold _ by my best friend?” He takes a deep breath when he’s finished and it hitches into a hacking cough, forcing him to bury his face in his arm for a moment. When he looks up, he’s sobered.

Shelton is silent, feeling owlish and strange as he watches Sledge’s face fold into itself, upset. After a moment his breathing calms, and he seems to come back to himself. The dim light nearly obscures his furious blush as he shrinks, embarrassed. While Shelton watches, Sledge transforms into something else — something self-reflective. A beat of silence hangs heavy between them.

“Ransomed is hardly sold,” Shelton says, once Sledge has pulled himself up out of his slouch. “Don’t get yourself all worked up. And quit complaining.”

“We  _ weren’t,” _ Sledge insists. “We never —”

“Shut your mouth, Sledge,” Shelton says, all indifference. “Ain’t nobody here who gives a damn, least of all me.”

Sledge, wisely, does. He takes a defeated drink and watches Shelton drain the rest of his. “Least of all you?” he asks.

“I said shut the fuck up, Sledge.”

* * *

That night, Shelton buys a room at the whorehouse. He never buys a whore. Instead, he goes out to find the first likely-looking thing he can, takes him back, and fucks him. Shelton isn’t particularly slow or tender, especially since it’s someone he never plans to see again. He’s even partway frantic out of spite for their abruptly shortened leave from last time on Nassau. When they kiss, Shelton halfway gone with the pleasure running hot down his spine, he bites so hard he draws blood.

Still, after, just coming down and boneless, Shelton somehow rests his head on the man’s chest and leaves it there. Shelton’s hands find their way to his ribcage, resting almost serenely along pronounced bones. He listens to the rattling breath, wet with sea air or drink or fever, all inescapable on an island such as this. He thinks,  _ Get the fuck out of here, Shelton. _ And he stays so long listening to a foreign pair of lungs struggle to heave themselves into the even tones of sleep that he nearly drifts off himself.

He catches himself just past midnight, sitting up with too much force and stretching until his spine pops. He stands and reaches for his breeches.

“You’re leaving?” asks the man in his bed, nonchalant.

Shelton grabs his shirt from the floor and doesn’t turn. “You wanna stay here longer, you’re payin’ for it.”

“Christ, all right. No need to get cross.”

Shelton leaves.

He rustles into one of the beach tents an hour later, eyes adjusting quickly to the dark. Sledge is settled atop a blanket in one corner and De L’Eau is sitting opposite him, whittling at a piece of driftwood. He’d agreed to watch Sledge while Shelton was gone, and Shelton trusts him not to tip Burgie off to his lapse in duties.

De L’Eau looks up and nods, expression darkening once Shelton fully enters the tent. “Everything alright?”

“Get some sleep, Jay,” says Shelton, feeling sharpened by the cool night air, or maybe from the residual perfume of the brothel. He slouches onto a blanket of his own, fixing De L’Eau with a glare until he does as told, tossing his carving aside and curling up in the sand.

And then Shelton’s alone again despite the two extra bodies in his tent. He lets his gaze pass over De L’Eau to Sledge’s sleeping form, which hadn’t stirred since Shelton entered the tent. His shirt is untucked and unbuttoned, loose. His face is turned away, his hair a shadowed smudge that Shelton quickly loses to its surroundings.

He has too much rampant energy to sleep but he’s too tired to stay alert, so he sits on his blanket, mind vacant as he listens to the gentle crash of the waves outside. He tries to watch the stars through the half-closed tent flap but he can’t make out any constellations, not like on the water where the gentle familiar guidance of the Plough always lends him a sense of continuity. Scattered light dribbled randomly about the sky. Shelton looks inside instead.

He keeps landing back on Sledge, his silent sleeping silhouette. Still save for the steady rise and fall of his chest, caught in the rhythmic cycle of sleep. Shelton watches him breathe until the sun peeks over the horizon and the stars are swallowed by the warm pink of dawn.

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to check out my [tumblr](https://townhulls.tumblr.com/) if you're so inclined or want to hear me ramble about the boys!


End file.
